Earlier
by mad-cow-mama
Summary: Santana and Brittany coming together after growing apart. A little less than a year after Santana and Brittany's daughter disappears into the time machine to become Sugar. World on a String Series Part 12. (in gleerant on tumblr's Sugar from the Future Verse)


Earlier

(for Brittana U Janitorial Staff Wanksgiving)

(part 12 of World on a String series, which takes place in gleerant'sSugar!verse. Shouts out to Roch & ehefic)

Earlier, when Puck had called, delayed in transit, Santana already rosy, her hands clammy, and Brittany had picked up, because he'd better not be late, not this time, not when—

God, her body. She's becoming an armadillo. Loss has made her a mess, she's been wound up for months, mind always spinning, muscles spinning a tougher hide. And Brittany asked her out, for the first time in months, and she'd nearly turned her down, still her habit, still unfair, still tending to blame. Still.

And now Puck, just as reliable in middle age as he'd been as a teenager, only this time she'd made the arrangements, and god help her, Charlie was going out for a movie with him and to spend the night at his roach motel.

Because.

Because Brittany asked her out and they haven't connected in forever in any way, because. And now they need to make it happen, even if they have to do it by appointment. She needs to get her breath. Brittany slides her thumb into the center of Santana's palm. Breathe. The beginnings of calm begin to spread from the tiny circles Brittany's thumb makes in the center of her palm. A little more calm. From the center of her palm.

He'll be here. He will be here. Within minutes. And okay, it's not a roach motel, there aren't any roaches there. Not that she's ever seen anyway, it's fine. It's fine. And it's a co-op, not a motel, it's just: it's still a man-cave, and she's never quite comfortable with Charlie being in man-land.

Not that he can't handle it. He can. And it's better now that he talks.

Puck. Pucking pucker. Where the puck is he? She needs to soak ahead of time so she can make her scrub appointment and her massage. Then maybe she'll be back in her body for the first time in months. Then sit in the tubs and stare into Brittany's eyes while listening to pouring water and ladies' voices. And then, maybe. And then. She brings her attention back to Brittany's thumb. It's a nice thumb, nicely curved. And strong.

Brittany leads now, finishing up with Charlie, Charles, he insists, but it's so difficult to remember when he's been Charlie all his life and suddenly—And Brittany finishes up with Puck, making sure to give him the list Santana drew up this morning when she realized earlier today, today would turn into tonight.

She used to be on top of it, but recently, her head's been too, too full. And things just get away from her. There's dropout, a lot of dropout. Calcification. In her mind. Goes with the armadillo hide. —And now it's time to go. She picks up Charlie one last time and squeezes him like it really could be the last time, and kisses him and tells him she loves him, because you never know, it could be the last time. You never know. She takes a breath and is about to say:

But they all finish it for her: "And stay away from that time machine."

Since there's no PDA allowed at the baths, Brittany's soothing thumb stops soothing at the end of the cab ride, and Santana feels the calm retreating immediately. Before they go in, Brittany catches her elbow and brings them face-to-face.

"Hey."

"Hi."

Brittany's eyes and mouth soften, and she shrugs toward the door. Santana looks away and pinks, then follows Brittany inside.

Once inside, they sign in, pay, disrobe, enrobe, disrobe again, shower, and soak. It's weird, but it's how they do it here. When Santana's number comes up on the giant digital display, one of the spa ladies ushers her into the scrub room.

She's about twenty minutes into it when she's able to stop the nervous chittering in her head. Skin just rolls off as the lady scrubs and scrubs and scrubs. Layer after layer peels back. She begins to feel again. It's not all pleasant, but it feels safe here, strangely safer than—strangely safer than—no. She sinks into the sensation of the skin. Sloughing. Shucking the outer crust. So when she—when she—god, her skin is buzzing.

She's getting sleepy. Probably from so much sensation.

Everything goes as planned. Soak, scrub, massage, soak some more. How long since she's gazed into Brittany's eyes, good god, how long? (There's as much hurt there as there is in Santana's.) And there's no touching here, it's part of the challenge, part of the ease and safety, because when Brittany touches her—and she will—it will be a surprise, like the first time, a slow burning surprise, even if Santana touches her first.

Their eyes meet.

Volumes pour between them in the meeting of their eyes. Decades of wins, decades of losses. And this most recent. Santana's skin shining, polished, not raw, but— she is. Brittany sees the look cross through.

"Wanna go?"

Santana nods, then shakes her head. Then nods again. Some days she can't bear to leave the house; some days she can't bear to stay. One thing about being here, all the impersonal intimate attention, her skin and muscles feel more like who she used to be. Only flayed, vulnerable, utterly open.

Brittany's eyes tell her a story: she too is laid bare. What better time? When more precious than now, with nothing, no bulwark between them. If only they can brave the cab ride without hiding, or growing back their leathery hides.

As soon as they leave the spa, Brittany catches Santana's hand. Their eyes meet again as Brittany's thumb resumes its rounds. On the way home, Santana closes her eyes and sinks into the contact, sinks into the sensation humming through her skin, sinks into Brittany's shoulder. Brittany kisses her hair.

They've been through heartache before.

From the heartland, they've been through landslide, heartbreak, break-up, upheaval, heavy states, stagnant waters… Dry spells. The desert.

Always again returning, their devotion their constant, knowing together is where they belong. The cab pulls up. Brittany doesn't let go and pulls her up the stoop. Brittany is getting giggly, and Santana is still serious girl. Brittany stills, pulls Santana's hand to her mouth, and kisses her knuckles.

Once inside, Brittany serves Santana some wine, which she takes, just a little, just enough, then she takes Brittany down the hall, past their room to the guest room. Brittany hesitates, and Santana shrugs, helplessly.

"Our bed's too big." It's not really a lie.

Brittany giggles a little, then faces her. Santana's heart races, but she takes her cue from Brittany and stills, locking eyes with her.

"Santana Pierce-Lopez, you are my wife, and I love you. I will always love you."

"Brittany Pierce-Lopez, you are my wife, and I love you. I will always love you."

"That's settled, then. Now I want to fuck you silly."

Sometimes, sometimes Santana wants to control everything. Sometimes she wants to be controlled, corralled, mastered, tamed. It feels strangely safer when Brittany takes all the responsibility, even down to telling Santana exactly what she needs to do to fuck Brittany silly. But sometimes. Sometimes she needs it to be different. Sometimes they need it to be different. Sometimes, because of, in spite of, between, and among their differences, they need to find the exact point of balance. Because teetering over and back in itself is sometimes far too overwhelming, and it just gets in the way.

Brittany unfastens Santana's dress. Where it opens she places light kisses. Santana closes her eyes and drinks in the toasty chill in the wake of her kisses.

She cherishes their differences. Brittany's so immediate, intuitive, instinctual. Mosaic. Santana is deliberative, contemplative, judgmental. Labyrinthine. Occasionally they can make the leap to the other side, take sips of the other's strengths, and spring back to the familiar and easy. Over time, they've learned where their strengths fit together. And their weaknesses.

Brittany's caress makes her knees weaken. She looks toward the bed, back at Brittany, and Brittany gets a wicked smile and picks her up. She throws her over her shoulder (surprise) and takes her to the bed. Brittany pulls back the covers and shifts Santana from a fireman's carry to a bridegroom's. Brittany carefully places Santana on the bed and removes their shoes.

Brittany climbs aboard. Aside from her shoes, she is still completely dressed. Santana's dress bunches around her waist. Brittany starts to remove her own sweater, but Santana takes her hands away and finishes that part of the job.

Brittany's lips stop when they are a quarter-inch from Santana's. Her breath grazes Santana's lips, and her eyes search Santana's face. She waits until Santana opens her eyes and locks with hers. Brittany slides her thumbs into Santana's palms then stops them. Santana's breath catches. Brittany waits. Then she circles her thumbs in Santana's palms again. Santana breathes again.

How is it even possible that they both close that eighth-inch distance simultaneously?

They meet in the middle. Then Brittany presses Santana's head back onto the pillow, presses into the kiss with all of her. She frees Santana's hands and props herself up on her elbows, still pressing into the kiss. Santana first pulls Brittany in even closer, then frees Brittany from her bra, then rolls them over so that she's on top now, sits up, and frees herself from hers.

Sometimes, breasts on breasts are the best.

Sometimes, it's lips behind the ear. Sometimes it's teeth, gently, anywhere soft. Sometimes it's fingernails on the back. Sometimes it's legs. Beautiful legs, strong legs, legs pressing between legs. Sometimes it's the thumb. Nicely curved. And strong. Sometimes it's the thumb in the ear, sometimes the thumb on the hipjoint, sometimes it's the thumb traveling southward, spelunking in the labyrinthine— Sometimes it's the mouth.

The mouth: agile, mobile, versatile. Strong, hard, soft. Sharp, or gentle. Teeth again, teeth on nipples; lips, tongue. Here now, immediate, and yet echoing of all the times before. Lips: lips on lips, little kisses, deep kisses, sucking kisses. Nibbling the earlobe, the throat, the clavicle. Santana gasps as Brittany flips them over again, hands working her dress off, lifting her legs to scrunch it over her still-amazing backside, pausing just to look…

Santana is just in her undies still. Brittany still has her skirt on, and those hilarious knee socks. How can anyone over the age of eleven pull off knee socks? But she does. At forty-seven. Santana smiles, thinking of it. Then she stops thinking, because: Surprise! Brittany's mouth on the outside of her undies. And she's just breathing her in. How does she do that, time after time?

"God, I love the way you smell. I gotta taste you."

"Me— me too, bring yourself up here."

And she does. There's some underwear wrangling, and finally the knee socks come off with some giggling. And they're naked, nose-downward, and oh. Oh. Oh my. And the thumb. God. Oh.

Sometimes sixty-nine is the best. Sometimes, if you want something, you can just do it and it comes right back at you. And the thumb, circling again, now right at the event horizon. Oh. And the lips and tongue? Oh.

"God, I love you," Brittany hums into her.

"Ohhhh," Santana hums back.

"Gaaaahhh," Santana hums back.

"Ahhhh," Santana hums again.

"Luuuuvvvvvvv," moans Santana.

And things are getting a little less intentional and little more involuntary. Okay, a lot more involuntary. God. Oh.

Both of them get a little tongue-tied when they're eating each other. But vocabulary doesn't count for much when fucking.

Brittany's thumb goes spelunking in the labyrinthine, and— (oh god)

(oh god)

(oh god)

"Yooooouuuuu!" cries Santana…

As Brittany cries, "Yessssssss!"

(oh god)

(oh god)

And yet another: (oh god)

They collapse on each other, trembling, sweating (oh god).

Brittany's breath rustling Santana's curlies causes another aftershock.

Santana steals another taste, causing another aftershock.

(oh god)

Brittany nips the inside of Santana's thigh, eliciting squeals.

"Okay, okay, come kiss me, god!"

And they taste themselves and each other, mingling, giggling.

Brittany, sleepy after sex, nestles into Santana's shoulder. Santana is wide awake. Her body is discharged, but her mind is bright. Not churning, not like earlier today, but bright, receptive, like much earlier, like thirty years ago, like the first time after they'd started dating. Santana brings her attention to the breath of her wife, her lover, her best friend, and slowly, slowly, exhaustion takes over, and slowly, very slowly, she drifts into sleep.


End file.
